if you ask me. The yardies won’t bother coming in on this one, I can assure you. They know my reputation. No, it will remain a local matter right here in Crumpsworth where it belongs.”
His little speech caused my heart to sink. Surely, I reasoned, the brutal murder of the world’s leading mystery writer could not be left to a local inspector in a town the size of Crumpsworth. At least, I fervently hoped that it wouldn’t.
Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, drove what could be called the American contingent back to London. I shared the Morgan with the Perrys and Bruce Herbert. We said little during the hour’s drive. Now that phase one of the investigation was over, the profound sadness of the event had settled in, and I found myself crying for the first time since discovering the body. Perry, who sat next to me, put his arm over my shoulder and said, “Yes, Jessica, it is a dreadful blow to all of us. It must be even more horrible for you since you shared the same talent as that wonderful woman. You do realize, of course, what ramifications this will have for you as a writer.”
I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and dabbed at my eyes. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you mean.”
“Well, it seems to me that Jessica Fletcher must now accept the torch.”
“The torch?”
“Yes, professionally speaking, of course. I would say that Jessica Fletcher, by virtue of Marjorie Ainsworth’s death, is now the world’s leading writer of the murder mystery.”
“Oh, I think that’s overstating it,” I said. “No one could ever ...”
“Clayton is right,” Bruce Herbert said. “Think about it, Jessica. You not only sell millions of copies of your books worldwide, it was you who discovered the body of your dear friend and colleague. You might need some good advice on how to handle the media attention.”
He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I took it, the insensitivity of the act beyond my comprehension, so much so that I could say nothing critical of it. My only words were “Thank you. I can’t believe this has happened.”
If I had trouble believing the events at Ainsworth Manor, the next day’s edition of the London Times, as well as a barrage of news items over the BBC, made a believer of me. Not only was the murder front-page news—as expected—Inspector Coots was quoted at length:
Obviously, Jessica Fletcher, the American writer who discovered the body, must be considered a prime suspect. A gold pendant that had been given to her by her late husband—bought in London, I might add—was found under the bed of the deceased. Since Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body in her nightclothes, she obviously wasn’t wearing any gold pendant or any other jewelry. It doesn’t take a genius to wonder why that pendant ended up in that bedroom. The fact that Mrs. Fletcher will now replace Marjorie Ainsworth as the top mystery writer in the world leads to some interesting speculation, I’d say. Yes indeed, I’d certainly say that as a veteran investigator of crimes large and small.
The lovely, old, and gentle Savoy Hotel now became a buzzsaw of activity. The press waited outside for me to show my face, and my phone kept ringing. I stopped answering it and had all calls impounded by the hotel operators, calling down hourly to have them relayed to me. I sat in my suite for the rest of the day, exhausted but unable to entertain even the thought of sleep, my throat dry, tears flowing and ebbing, leaving a salty taste on my lips.
After hours of this nightmarish existence, I was informed of a call that had been made to me that I immediately returned. Amazing, today’s satellite systems; my call to Cabot Cove, Maine, went through in seconds, and I was hearing a familiar and welcome voice, my good friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt. “Seth, it’s Jessica.”
“Jessica, how are you? We’ve heard. We’ve all heard. It’s the lead item on every
His little speech caused my heart to sink. Surely, I reasoned, the brutal murder of the world’s leading mystery writer could not be left to a local inspector in a town the size of Crumpsworth. At least, I fervently hoped that it wouldn’t.
Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, drove what could be called the American contingent back to London. I shared the Morgan with the Perrys and Bruce Herbert. We said little during the hour’s drive. Now that phase one of the investigation was over, the profound sadness of the event had settled in, and I found myself crying for the first time since discovering the body. Perry, who sat next to me, put his arm over my shoulder and said, “Yes, Jessica, it is a dreadful blow to all of us. It must be even more horrible for you since you shared the same talent as that wonderful woman. You do realize, of course, what ramifications this will have for you as a writer.”
I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and dabbed at my eyes. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you mean.”
“Well, it seems to me that Jessica Fletcher must now accept the torch.”
“The torch?”
“Yes, professionally speaking, of course. I would say that Jessica Fletcher, by virtue of Marjorie Ainsworth’s death, is now the world’s leading writer of the murder mystery.”
“Oh, I think that’s overstating it,” I said. “No one could ever ...”
“Clayton is right,” Bruce Herbert said. “Think about it, Jessica. You not only sell millions of copies of your books worldwide, it was you who discovered the body of your dear friend and colleague. You might need some good advice on how to handle the media attention.”
He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I took it, the insensitivity of the act beyond my comprehension, so much so that I could say nothing critical of it. My only words were “Thank you. I can’t believe this has happened.”
If I had trouble believing the events at Ainsworth Manor, the next day’s edition of the London Times, as well as a barrage of news items over the BBC, made a believer of me. Not only was the murder front-page news—as expected—Inspector Coots was quoted at length:
Obviously, Jessica Fletcher, the American writer who discovered the body, must be considered a prime suspect. A gold pendant that had been given to her by her late husband—bought in London, I might add—was found under the bed of the deceased. Since Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body in her nightclothes, she obviously wasn’t wearing any gold pendant or any other jewelry. It doesn’t take a genius to wonder why that pendant ended up in that bedroom. The fact that Mrs. Fletcher will now replace Marjorie Ainsworth as the top mystery writer in the world leads to some interesting speculation, I’d say. Yes indeed, I’d certainly say that as a veteran investigator of crimes large and small.
The lovely, old, and gentle Savoy Hotel now became a buzzsaw of activity. The press waited outside for me to show my face, and my phone kept ringing. I stopped answering it and had all calls impounded by the hotel operators, calling down hourly to have them relayed to me. I sat in my suite for the rest of the day, exhausted but unable to entertain even the thought of sleep, my throat dry, tears flowing and ebbing, leaving a salty taste on my lips.
After hours of this nightmarish existence, I was informed of a call that had been made to me that I immediately returned. Amazing, today’s satellite systems; my call to Cabot Cove, Maine, went through in seconds, and I was hearing a familiar and welcome voice, my good friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt. “Seth, it’s Jessica.”
“Jessica, how are you? We’ve heard. We’ve all heard. It’s the lead item on every
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